Lineage Book 1: Awakening Shadows
by mountainman91
Summary: Three lineages stand tall in this world. Two have been fulfilled. The third, that of the Kings of the West, the Faithful, has yet to be. As the Theme of Arda comes to its fulfillment, Melkor awakes, and things forgotten come once more to light. Follow me through mystery and into wonder as the ancient and modern collide and prophecy is fulfilled. T for later violence. Review & Rate!
1. Chapter 1

Then stood Eru Iluvatar and lifted up his hands, and the music of the Ainur fell silent. And he spoke, and his face was glad as he spake, saying, "Now is come the fulfillment of the Theme, and all that is in discord shall be brought into harmony, and it shall come to pass that the uttermost ends of My will shall be made plain. For the dwelling of the Children will be with their Father, and all that is marred will be made right. And lo! The Doom of Man itself shall be made plain, and that which has long slumbered will awaken."

**Seattle, Washington: 12:30 AM**. **Telcanachi Residence**. **1994 AD.**

"Mommy! Mommy!"

Maria sighed and rolled over. Emanuel would get it.

"Mommy! Mommy! Please!"

She sighed and rolled out of bed, the floor cold on her bare feet. She opened the door. Something hit her in the chest like a cannonball, the little jet-haired boy clinging to her with desperate strength. He buried his face in her breast. She could feel him trembling through his thin cotton Superman nighties.

"Shh, it's ok." She stroked the long black hair and he stilled beneath the comforting touch, "What's the matter, Raphi?"

He looked up, her hand cradling the back of his head, green eyes vivid and bright and extremely wide. "Monsters...bad things. Digging from beneath the hills. Coming awake."

He began to shiver again. Uncontrollably until she put her hand on him again.

The night-terrors were getting worse. She had talked to Emanuel about seeing a doctor, but neither of them knew if it would do any good. She laid him down on the bed between them. He moaned quietly and then fell asleep. Out like a light. She smiled softly. Her Raphi. A peculiar child, very much like his father. Quiet. Always looking and listening, as if he could pick out the patterns behind the world. Troubled by strange dreams, like his father. Emanuel would never admit anything, but she could see it in his eyes when he woke. The way they looked. So...old. Old and filled with sorrow.

**Seattle, Washington: 10:30 AM. 2013 AD.**

"Grant us grace to entrust Emanuel to your never-failing love which sustained him in this life. Receive him into the arms of your mercy, and remember him according to the favor you bear for your people. God of Mercy..."

"Hear our prayer." Raphael muttered. He tried not to look at the casket, tried to look at the trees that dotted the cemetery. Anywhere but the grave. Anywhere. He wasn't supposed to die. Not now. Not so soon. Not so _quickly_. He had been in Colorado just two days ago when the news came that his father was ill. He had died while his son boarded the airplane at DIA. Not even twenty-four hours. To go from perfect health to...he blinked back tears. So fast. Mom was leaning against him, her face buried in his shoulder, and he had to be strong. Had to pretend. At least until the service was over. Then Grandfather would see to her. And he would be free. The car was already packed with gear. He would disappear into the mountains for a week. Drown his sorrows in the greenery. Lose himself in silence.

"...that neither things present nor things to come will be able to separate us from your love in Christ Jesus our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forevermore."

"Amen."

They took communion, a blur. More words read stumblingly from the little pamphlet that contained the order of service. Then the dismissal. Pastor Grimmold's face was pale above his vestments as he stepped cautiously around the open grave.

"Raphi, Mrs. Telcanachi." He shook Raphi's hand. After a moment's awkwardness, he embraced Maria.

"Thank you." She smiled softly. He smiled back, but Raphael could see he too was fighting back tears. The way moisture beaded at the corners of his eyes. Emanuel had been a deacon.

"If there's anything I can do for you, or if you just need to talk, call me and I'll come running."

"Thank you." Raphael said. "I think we'll be all right. The whole family is here, now."

Pastor Grimmolds glanced down for a moment, then looked Raphi in the eyes. Blue met green. "Sometimes that isn't enough. Especially with fathers."

**Northern Cascades National Park, Washington. 11:30 PM. 2013 AD.**

The Subaru roared up the final incline, and he caught the sign out of the corner of his eye, a ghostly green and white in the headlights. He jerked the steering wheel hard to the right and the late-model Crosstrek shuddered in protest, the tires kicking up gravel as he made the sharp turn into the camping loop. Highway 20 had been nearly empty, a rarity in late summer. No rangers at the gate, either. He had left his fee taped to the booth window with a note.

He slowed. The dirt road here was little better than a washboard track, and he grinned as his high-beams bobbed up and down. Something small scampered away into the safety of the columnar woods, disturbed by all the light and noise. There. The old pull-through. He turned a hard left again, and the suspension shuddered as he descended a short, steep incline before leveling out. Shift down. Brake hard. Give the car a moment to cool. Kill the lights. Bury his mind in the silence and the dark. Recline the seat. He was asleep within a few breaths, as the car ticked and hummed to itself in the language of machines.

He was standing in a dark place. Underground. He could almost feel the tons of rock above him, and the preternatural stillness. A deep place.

Something stirred.

Black as the abyss around it. It stirred. He caught the sense of massive power and vast antiquity. Older than the stones around it. It stirred, stood on legs thick as redwoods, a shadow against the black, more sensed and heard than seen.

It began to dig.

Other things, smaller things, whirled around it. Bodiless shadows filled with malice. The cavern gave way and light streamed in. They poured out, the beast itself kindling into flame as it strode from the hillside into the waking world. A flaming sword grasped in a massive fist.

A castle, a citadel, a fortress-city carved from the rock of a hillside. A great keel of rock out-thrust. Crowned by a silver tower. A fountain. A flowering white tree. A man, crowned with kingship, holding out a great double-edged sword to him. "Take, and smite. Take, and fight." The man gestured at him. "Take up your name."

He backed away, slipped and fell, and he was falling from a vast height. From a mountain peak. And far and away, he could hear the cry of an eagle.

A/N: I own nothing except Raphael.


	2. Chapter 2

" There King Finrod Felagund, hastening from the south, was cut off from his people and surrounded with small company in the Fen of Serech; and he would have been slain or taken, but Barahir came up with the bravest of his men and rescued him, and made a wall of spears about him; and they cut their way out of the battle with great loss. Thus Felagund escaped, and returned to his deep fortress of Nargothrond; but he swore an oath of abiding friendship and aid in every need to Barahir and all his kin, and in token of his vow he gave to Barahir his ring."

—The Silmarillion, Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin

**North Cascades National Park, Washington. 7:15 AM. 2013 AD**.

His head throbbed incessantly and his back felt as though it was broken in three places. Raphael immediately remembered why he hated sleeping in cars. Even his car. He groaned and opened his eyes. Rain pattered softly on the roof, running down the windshield in shifting streams. _Probably the first wash the Subaru has gotten in a week of Sundays_, he thought, and grinned ruefully to himself. He rolled his head and his neck vertebrae popped alarmingly. But it felt so good. He did it again. His stomach growled and he reached behind the seat, his stiff shoulder joint protesting. Jetboil. Nope. Tent. Nope. His hand closed around a cool metal cylinder.

"Mystery meal, and the lucky winner is..."

He pulled the can around and read the label. Kidney beans. He made a face at himself in the rearview mirror. Unruly black hair and bloodshot eyes in a narrow face. Red lines imprinted into his cheek where he had pressed it against the seams in the seat cushion. Such is life. He sighed and set to work with the can opener.

**North Cascades National Park, Washington. 9:20 AM. **

It had stopped raining at nine o'clock on the dot. Weather in the Pacific Northwest was anybody's guess at any given time. The soft earth squelched around his low hikers as he stepped out of the car. He opened the back passenger door and pulled out a waterproof. One nice thing about being a single college graduate and a manager of a chain coffee shop was that he could afford the gear he wanted. He zipped up the dark green Marmot jacket. If he stinted in other ways.

He locked the car and shoved the keys into his pocket. Ran a hand through his hair. Silent except for the rhythmic drip of water from bough and leaf. The smell of ozone, wet earth. Water. Sunlight glancing off the river. He looked around. Hemlock. Cedar. Fir. The green depths of the forest. Like something out of the _Hobbit_. Dad would read that story to him on family camp-outs. He remembered the soft glow of the flashlight hanging from the tent roof. The soft down sleeping bag. His father's voice, strong and deep and rich. Like the roots of the mountains, like the soil that birthed and fed this forest. Something in the pit of his stomach turned, clenching in fear and sadness. He started towards the river and the highway. He had to get away from the memories, or they would drown him.

He found a tree with a dry patch beneath it not far from the Skagit. The river's name had always been a source of great hilarity on family campouts. Dad had used it as a swear word...and then his stomach tightened again and he had to think about something else. Anything else. His dreams.

The night-terrors had left him for a few years. Just long enough to allow him to convince himself he was normal. A few casual dating relationships. The girls always broke it up. Said he was 'too intense', 'serious', 'weird'. Or didn't say anything at all. He would wake up with a message on his cell and never see them again. It was as though they could see what he dreamt lingering in his eyes, even when his mind was on other matters. But the dreams were something he always came back to. Things digging at the hills. Labored breathing. He had talked to Pastor Grimmolds about it. Had seen a shrink, once, hesitantly. Pointlessly. Always the monsters digging. The man with the sword was new. Telling him to take up his name. What could that mean?

He watched the river drift by, the water catching sunlight and translating it into moving patterns. Wind softly touching everything. Telcanachi was a rare name, he knew. Only a handful of families from the Italian Alps carried it. Great Grandpa Joseph had emigrated just after the Second World War. Settled just about as far away from Europe as he could get. His fingers idly dug in the loam and he sighed. He was no closer to an answer. He took a deep breath and listened to the river, letting the watersong wash over him.

For a late summer day after the rain, the sun was exceptionally warm. The ground comfortably dry and soft. Raphael settled lower, sprawling on the warm leaf-strewn ground, his heels digging up small hillocks of black earth, the rough bark of the cedar poking his back through the jacket. So warm. The sunlight playing on the water and the soft roar of the water. Slowly, he felt the voice of the Skagit lull him into dreariness. The river, the mountains became indistinct, floating away into a warm golden haze.

Cold. A deep chill. He was awake in a moment, blinking and instinctively pulling the jacket closer around his body. A bank of gray clouds had drifted across the sun, which stood at its zenith. How long had he slept? It must be nearly noon. He stood up and dusted his pants and back off. It was time to get back to the car and set up camp before it rained again. So strangely cold. He stepped out from behind the thick cedar and immediately felt as though he were being watched. He could feel their eyes on him, whoever it was. He cleared his throat.

"Hello?"

No response. He stopped and shrubs and maidenhair ferns swayed slightly, dappled with shadows. If someone wanted to remain hidden, they could. Simply a matter of crouching down and staying still.

"Hello? It's okay, you can show yourself. I don't mind company."

Something heavy moved in the underbrush. He crouched, hands balling into fists. People didn't move that way. He put his fists up into a boxing stance, backing away slowly and carefully. If whatever it was jumped him, he'd at least make it work for its meal. He strained his eyes, trying to see what it was. What it could be. He caught a glimpse of a high, humped back massive with muscle. He swallowed. Mountain lion.

The thing that stepped out into the narrow clearing was no cougar. Slitted yellow eyes fixed on him from above a wolflike snout. Double rows of serrated teeth. Tongue lolling out of a smiling maw. It had the build of a hyena, but it was at least the size of a male African lion. Raphael had been to the zoo often enough to tell that at a glance. It lowered its head, growling deep in its throat, stepping closer. Raphael stepped back. How did you frighten away animals that didn't exist? He'd never read any safety brochures on lion-sized wolves before. The cold intensified despite his hammering heart. He took another step back, nearly tripped over an exposed root. It followed him with eyes, head, and body. He swallowed.

"Hey, git! Go eat a moose or something." He waved it away. The beast snarled, bunching its haunches, ready to spring.

And then the world exploded in a cacophony of percussive thunder. Gunfire. Raphael covered his ears and threw himself to the ground. A heavy thud that shook the clearing. Someone's hands on his shoulders, lifting him up.

"You okay?" A tall man with long blond hair in a sportscoat and jeans. Aviator sunglasses and a broad grin. Vaguely foreign accent he couldn't place. He held a smoking automatic in his right hand.

Raphael nodded.

"Good," the man said, then, "you might want to cover your ears." He nodded towards the animal, which lay heaving on its side in a pool of gore. ".45's are so _very_ loud."

"Wha..?"

The man dropped a magazine from the gun, slammed another one home, cocked the slide, and emptied what had to be fifteen rounds into the jerking corpse. Raphael's ears rang despite his hands. He pulled them away after the last echo died. The blond man smiled, speaking loudly to be heard.

"Figured I'd find you by the water," He holstered the gun and offered his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Raphael grasped it and shook firmly.

"Aubrey's the name."

"How did you know I'd be here?" Raphael's eyes narrowed. The man wore a T-shirt beneath the silk sportscoat. Silkscreened. The logo read, "One Does Not Simply Walk Into Mordor."

"Well, I..." Something howled in the distance, and Aubrey's head snapped around to stare at where the sound had come from. "I think we should leave. Time for talk later."

"My car's just up the hill..."

"No. They've already caught your scent."

"Whaa?"

"Just trust me. Besides, I drive a Merc. It could be worse." He grinned again. "You coming?"

Raphael regarded him narrowly. "You're a little crazy, aren't you?"

"I have my reasons. Now come on, let's go!"

And so Raphael found himself running for his life with a total stranger. He glanced back at the clearing. There was no body.

**A/N: Fast update, huh? I'm on Spring break and don't have much to do, so don't get used to it. Future updates will be bimonthly if that. If you can guess Aubrey's identity before the next chapter (Hint, it has to do with a canon character who does not appear in the LOTR films) then write it in the review, and I'll PM you with a reward (hint, it has something to do with the story). As always, I own nothing except Raphael. Happy hunting!**


	3. Chapter 3: Flight

"Then was Arathorn, the fourth of that name, of the lineage of Telcontar, caught by treachery far from home and folk. For it came to pass, as he visited the Haven of Umbar, enriched and made beautiful with much trade, that one styling himself 'Ar-Pharazon', crept from the lineage of Castamir the accursed, surrounded the Haven with much force of arms and many ships made in secret. And Arathorn only escaped with his life alone, dressing in rags to pass as a beggar. And the seed of Castamir raised bitter war through East and South, and this was reckoned the beginning of all of the Woes which came before the Great Ice."- Nolmo the Elder, _Of the Fading Days_

**Highway 20 Eastbound**. **Washington. 2013 AD. **

"We should be going west!" Raphael craned his neck to look back at the receding blacktop. "Seattle's that way!"

"You have no idea how much I want to go West." Aubrey sighed wistfully, staring off into the middle distance. "Seattle, however, is not safe. They were already moving the night your father died. It's a miracle They let you out of the city."

"They? Who's they? You still haven't explained anything. And..." Raphael paused in thought, and his concern deepened, "what about Grandpa and Mom?"

"We didn't learn of Their intentions until too late. You said your grandfather is with your mother?" Aubrey glanced at him through the dark aviators.

Raphael nodded. "And with Grandma. Why?"

"If your grandfather is there, they might be okay. It's not them They're looking for. It's you."

"Why?"

For answer, Aubrey opened the armrest console between the seats. The Mercedes described a lazy arc across the oncoming lane, and then back. Raphael impotently clutched the doorhandle, his knuckles whitening, as the blond man dug through the compartment, one hand on the wheel and both eyes away from the road. A flaming, padded, leather-cushioned death on the road flashed before his eyes in a moment.

"Ah." Aubrey produced a small box wrapped in brown paper. "Here it is. Your father would want you to have this." He dropped it in Raphael's lap.

"You knew my father?"

"Strictly business." Aubrey slammed the compartment lid shut. The car's speed steadily climbed. "Open it."

Raphael's fingers scrabbled at the thick brown paper. It tore. He crumpled it into an ashtray. The box was a small, black, velveted affair. The kind jewelry stores used. A lump rose in his throat. "I think I know what this is."

Aubrey glanced sidelong at him. "Well, then, open it."

Raphael hesitated. "This is because of my dad, isn't it? Whoever it was wants me because of something he did, don't they?"

"Open it." Aubrey's voice softened. Raphael could have sworn the man was fighting back tears. Knew he was, even as the moisture trembled at the corners of his eyes.

He opened the box.

The ring. His father's ring. A silver band worked with twin serpent's heads. One upheld a flowery canopy, which the other consumed. Between their writhing bodies was framed an emerald. The fading sunlight glinted in its green depths. A well of mystery.

"Raphael, _that_ is why They want you. Not because of what your father did, but because of who he was. Because of who you are." Aubrey's voice was low, hushed even. Raphael stared at him.

"I don't understand."

"I know. Your father never told you. He would have when you were ready, but..." The blond man sighed. "Complications arose." He looked out the window, as if for a sign. The forested peaks flashed by like a dream of wilderness. Finally, he spoke, his eyes still fixed on the trees. The road.

"You are Raphael Telcontar. Not Telcanachi, although that is the name that history has given your family. You are of an ancient line of..." He paused, searching for words, "very important people. You have enemies. Powerful enemies. Do you think your great grandfather came across the Sea on a whim? Or because he was afraid of war? You have been hunted before."

Raphael sighed and lay back against the headrest, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. Great. First almost eaten by a wolf-lion-hyena thing, and then this.

"That's a little hard to take."

"I know." Aubrey's grin returned. "I feel ya, brother. Tell me, have you ever read any Tolkien?"

"No. Just seen the movies. Why?" Raphael gingerly worked the ring out of its box. Felt the cool and precious weight of it in the palm of his hand. Slipped it on.

Aubrey's grin widened, his eyes invisible behind the dark aviators. "Just wondering."

**Motel 8, Boise, Idaho. 1 AM. 2013 AD. **

"So?"

Aubrey stopped and turned, the gravel of the lot crackling under the soles of his eminently fashionable Timberland boots. His eyes, Raphael had learned when the sun set and the blond man had taken off his sunglasses, were a disconcerting blue-gray. Wolfishly beautiful.

"Yes?"

"Umm..." Raphael ran his hands through tousled jaw length hair. His mind was a haze of confusion and exhaustion. "Can I call home now? We're far enough away. I'll use a pay-phone. I need to know if Mom's okay."

Aubrey paused, as if considering this. He nodded. "Fine. I'll get moved into the room while you're calling. Make it quick, though. Less than five minutes. I don't want it getting traced if they've set up a tap on the line."

"Okay. Thanks."

Aubrey turned again and started towards where the silver Mercedes stood before the main office, keys jangling in his left hand.

Raphael cleared his throat. "Oh, and Aubrey."

The man paused. Glanced back over his shoulder, narrow face pale in the moongleam.

"Thanks for what you did back there."

He nodded. "No problem."

The phone rang three times before they picked up.

"Hello?"His mother's voice. She sounded drained, vulnerable. As if she had been crying.

"Hi Mom. Are you all right?"

"Raphi...where are you?"

He hesitated. She must have seen the number was unlisted. "I'm not even sure...something came up and I had to leave. Are you okay?"

"Y...yes."

"Okay. Good. Look, I'll try to keep in contact with you, but I'm not going to be home for..." He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, "a while. I'm safe and okay, but like I said, something's come up."

"Raphi, what happened? What are you doing?" Concern sharpened her tone, and he winced a little. This was going to suck.

"Mom, I'll tell you more later, but I have to go now. I'm sorry." Somewhere along the line, something clicked. He heard it, and something in his chest lurched. "I've got to go now. Sorry. Love you. 'bye."

He slammed the handset down into the cradle. Step back. Deep shuddering breath. He shoved his hands down into his pockets and shuffled back to the room, kicking up small sprays of gravel and watching them skip across the lot.

Aubrey was sitting on one of the twin-sized beds, hunched over a tablet computer, the glow of the screen reflecting onto his face in the otherwise dark room. Raphael stopped in the doorway and waited for his eyes to adjust. He had always resented people who turned on lights automatically. If Aubrey wanted it dark, there could be a reason.

"How's your night vision?" The blond man's question sounded more like a statement. He didn't even look up from the screen.

"Uh, pretty good." Raphael stuttered, taken aback.

Aubrey muttered something under his breath. Raphael thought it sounded suspiciously like, "it should be." The lanky blond set the pad down and turned on the bedside lamp. Raphael blinked at the sudden light.

"We're going South. New Mexico. We'll be safe there."

"How do you know that?" Raphael sat on the other bed and stared at Aubrey. "Why would we be safe there?"

The blond man smiled wanly and brushed a stray strand of hair back in an absent-minded gestured. "You'll see. We're also going to get you some clothes in the morning. Go get ready for bed. We start early."

"I was afraid of that." Raphael grumbled and stalked off to the bathroom.

Moonlight streamed in through the grimy windowpanes, pooling on the floor and the Elda's upturned face. The human was asleep, his muscular chest rising and falling rhythmically. They would move in the morning. For now, it was the Elda and the stars and the silver beam of the moon. As it was in the beginning. World without end. His eyes searched the darknesses between the stars, the children of Elbereth. Time spooled and rippled around him.

The sound of gravel popping and clacking beneath the tires of a car. Then, a hushed and muffling silence. The grasshoppers stopped.

The elda's eyes snapped wide open and he stood, balling his hands into fists.

They were here.


	4. Chapter 4: Fire!

"And in Utumno he gathered his demons about him, those spirits who first adhered to him in the days of his splendour, and became most like him in his corruption: their hearts were of fire, but they were cloaked in darkness, and terror went before them; they had whips of flame. Balrogs they were named in Middle-earth in later days." JRR Tolkien, the Silmarillion

**Motel 8. Boise, Idaho. 2:45 AM. 2013 AD. **

The dreams had changed. He stood with a group of men in a cave. Tattered canvas coats and filthy furs, bolt-action rifles slung across their backs. Talking in a language like and yet unlike the Italian his mother and father had spoken in the home. Snow drifted across the mouth of the cavern. A dry powder.

One of the men half-turned to stare at him, blue-gray eyes wide with earnest urgency framed in a dirty face. Even in the dream, Raphael felt the shock of recognition. Aubrey's face. Aubrey's voice.

"Come on! Wake up! We need to go now!" Hands shaking him. Strong clever fingers.

Raphael's eyes snapped open. He was usually a light sleeper, and in this moment, consciousness returned to him fully and quickly. Something in his companion's voice. Desperation?

"Get up!" Aubrey threw something at him, and Raphael caught it. His pants. He kicked the sheets aside and set foot on the floor, struggling into his clothes. Belt. Shoes. Shirt. Wallet.

"Come on!" The blond man hissed. Raphael's eyes narrowed. That was fear.

"What's going on?"

For answer, Aubrey gently lifted up a fold of the lace curtain from the window frame. He peered out for a moment, hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun. He was wearing it on the outside of the waistband now, for faster access, Raphael presumed.

"They're here. They just went into the office. We need to leave. Now. Get the door. I'll cover you."

Raphael gingerly turned the doorhandle. Cold metal and the yammering of his heart. Stepping softly. The thin sheet-metal door ghosted open. Aubrey stepped around, gun held level in both hands, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead. Scanning the shadows, the portico with the muzzle of his pistol. Raphael wondered idly if he were actually an actor in a bad action movie, and all the tension was merely for show.

"Ok." Aubrey's voice was hushed and taut. "Close the door quietly on three. One..."

He gingerly let the door back.

"Two."

"Three." The latch clicked firmly and finally into the bolt-hole.

One of the shadows moved. He felt it, like a muffling, crushing blanket of paralyzing fear. His legs it Spoke, and Raphael shrieked and clapped his hands to his ears. A voice not heard for a thousand thousand years plucked at his ears painfully. He staggered back, and Aubrey thrust him aside.

**'Hello, Glorfindel.'**

The blond man smiled thinly. "How do you know my name?"

**'Long have I hunted the Balrog-Slayer.'**

"Well, it took you long enough. How many centuries?"

Something hissed angrily. Raphael pulled his hands away from his ears, and stared. A woman robed in a black robe. No, not a robe. The light that touched it was pulled in. Robed in blackness itself. Her face long and aquiline, and when she Spoke, her thin lips parted over pointed teeth.

**'I have found you now. And your charge. That is all that matters. My Master will be pleased.'**

"Your master has yet to pierce the Door of Night. His time is not yet come."

**'Your deaths will hasten that.'** The woman stepped forward and raised empty hands. Heat. The air around her fingertips boiled and rippled. She smirked. Aubrey stepped back, his gun still leveled at her chest. When he spoke, his voice was detached. Calm.

"Mr. Telcanachi. Run."

Somehow Raphael found the strength to move. He bolted for the car, the keys in his hand. He did not remember Aubrey handing him them. Gunfire. He pumped the keyfob, ripped the door handle open, and cranked the key. The engine sputtered, then growled, then roared as he shifted into reverse and slammed on the accelerator, gravel gouting up in great sprays.

An explosion of searing flame. Raphael screamed once, a barking exclamation cut short by the inevitable shuddering _boom. _The afterimage seared on his retinas. Someone slammed the passenger door shut, and he could smell burning hair.

"Go!" Aubrey's voice.

He kicked the car into gear and the Mercedes screamed out of the gravel lot. A ball of fire hit three yards away and turned the granite pebbles to glass.

"What the hell was that?" Raphael roared, blinking to clear his eyes from the glowing sprays of light imprinted on them.

"Just drive!"

Something else exploded directly behind them, and the rear end of the car lifted several feet off the ground and slammed back onto the asphalt with a squealing metallic groan. "My car..." Aubrey groaned.

Raphael glanced over at him. Aubrey's forehead was smudged with soot. One eyebrow was missing and the hair on one side of his head was burned short.

"What happened?"

"What does it look like? She threw fire at me!" Aubrey settled in his seat and pulled the belt across his chest. Coughed into his elbow. A deep, hacking, smoker's cough. "Turn left."

"What do you mean she threw fire at you?"

"Turn left!"

Raphael yanked the wheel hard and the Mercedes drifted around the corner, tires screaming angrily.

"My car..." Aubrey groaned again, wistfully.

"Now what do you mean..."

"RIGHT!"

The car screamed right.

**Some Random McDonald's, Brigham City, Utah. 6:30 AM. 2013 AD.**

Raphael's hand trembled slightly as he reached for the coffee cup. He stared at it absently. It stopped shaking. He grabbed the cup and drained the scalding liquid in a gulp. Aubrey sat hunched at the other end of the tiny Formica table.

"You think we lost them?"

"Huh?" The blond man looked up, the remarkably sharp point of his left ear exposed now that his hair was six inches shorter on that side. And blackened. "Yeah. We lost 'em. What was the other question?"

"What happened? How did she..." He paused, "shoot fire out of her hands?"

"She's a demon." Aubrey shrugged and buried his nose in the cup, slurping his coffee noisily.

Raphael stared. He was a devout man...his parents had raised him in the church. Summer camp, both camper and counsellor. Dad a deacon, wanted to be an elder. Had sent his son a study Bible the day before he died. Yay Jesus. But this was ridiculous.

"Huh? This isn't _The Exorcist_."

"Wish it was. These don't shrivel up like little marshmallow peeps when you sprinkle holy water on 'em, either."

"So, um, the wolf? This? What's up?"

Aubrey took another long, loud pull on the coffee. Sighed and set it down. "You wouldn't believe me."

Raphael stared at the scorched and disheveled apparition at the other end of the table. He shook his head. "No, probably, not."

The man grinned. "Figured. Let's let it lay low until we get where we're going."

"Which is?"

"El Jardin Ranch. Santa Fe, New Mexico, bud. But neither of us are dressed for the occasion." He grinned and winked roguishly, cocking his newly lopsided head to one side. "How do you feel about a shopping spree, Mr. Telcontar?"

"Only if you get a haircut first."

**Santa Fe, New Mexico. 8 PM. 2013 AD. **

The setting sun dyed half the sky with brilliant reds, golds, and oranges. Like the frenzied visions of a master painter in his death throes. The Western horizon a goblet of fire to answer the spreading dark in the East. Raphael tried not to stare too much. Sunsets had always had a visceral effect on him.

They had passed through Santa Fe proper an hour ago and were still driving. Cattle, pinon junipers. Bushes. Dust. Mountains low on the horizon. To the left, somewhat nearer, the squat black outline of a mesa jutted into darkening sky. The Mercedes slowed and turned onto a dirt road. Raphael's teeth clacked painfully together as the car bounced over a pothole.

"Where're we going? This is just pasture."

"It is." Aubrey agreed as they rattled over a cattle guard, the dust billowing in vague and menacing shapes from beneath the wheel-wells. "The north pasture, to be exact. The only one that connects to the highway. Or any other road."

"We really are in the boonies." Raphael groaned dramatically.

Aubrey smirked. "City slicker."

"Says the guy in the suit." He glanced over. Aubrey had gotten his hair cut, as promised. He no longer looked lopsided.

"You're one to talk." The blond man shot back, his eyes never leaving the road. Raphael looked down at his own apparel. Sportscoat, a Western cut dress shirt, jeans, and roper-heeled cowboy boots. He absently ran a hand along his hair, tied back in a short ponytail. "I look like an extra from some B-grade Chuck Norris flick."

"Chuck Norris makes A-movies?"

They both laughed.

The mesa drew steadily nearer, and Raphael could see that one section of the soft limestone cliff had eroded and collapsed in some ancient landslide. The tail of debris comprised a long steep slope up to the flat top of the hill. Something black and narrow zig-zagged across the face of it. A road.

A thump and then the smooth hum of tires on well-laid asphalt. The Mercedes glided around the first switchback, a hairpin turn. They flashed through a set of gates, the wooden doors rising ten feet high at least, set in a high arch of stone. Six inches thick and solid. Raphael cocked an eyebrow at Aubrey.

"Why the fancy front doors?"

Aubrey shrugged. "Nostalgia. The Boss likes to keep things a certain way. You'll see when you get to meet him."

"The Boss?"

"Si. El Jefe. The Old Man. Mr. Blue. He has a lot of titles."

"Hm. Interesting."

The road doubled back on itself seven times. At each turn an arch had been erected. Each with its doors. Seven gates. Each of a different kind of material. Abstract patterns. Friezes carved into doorpost and leaf. Stone. Bronze. Wrought iron. Something flamed a ruddy yellow in the headlights, and he blinked. Gold leaf. A cool glow as of moonlight. Silver. Silver?

Thump. The engine's growl gentled to a purr as the road leveled out. A tall adobe wall loomed out of the darkness to their right. The Mercedes' headlights reflected back, as though from a mirror, and Aubrey gently pumped the brakes. Raphael saw why. A final gate, massively constructed from monolithic concrete blocks. Stuccoed like the wall. Leaves of stainless steel polished smooth. Aubrey slowly rolled the window down.

"Edro ennyn!"

A momentary pause. Something whirred, and the gates swung open smoothly and soundlessly. The Mercedes pulled through. Raphael could have sworn he saw a slender form with the spindly shape of an assault rifle slung across its back. Before he could look again, they were through. A paved courtyard surrounded by a portico. Low adobe buildings with exposed beams. The moonlight pooling on the black asphalt. Aubrey shut the car off, and they sat for a moment in silence.

"Well, Mr. Telcontar. We've made it. Welcome to El Jardin."

**A/N: I do not own any of the LOTR/ Silmarillion characters, the Sindarin language, The Exorcist, or Chuck Norris, because you don't own Chuck Norris, Chuck Norris owns you. This was a quick chappie that had a lot of catching up to do, and there are obvious flaws. Sound off in the reviews. **


	5. Chapter 5: Waking

"Rivendell!" said Frodo. "Very good: I will go east, and I will make for Rivendell. I will take Sam to visit the elves; he will be delighted." He spoke lightly; but his heart was moved suddenly with a desire to see the house of Elrond Halfelven, and breathe the air of that deep valley where many of the Fair Folk still dwelt in peace. - Fellowship of the Ring

**El Jardin, New Mexico. 11:35 AM. 2013 AD. **

Raphael groaned and buried his face in his hands. "This is ridiculous."

"Do you have any other explanation?" The dapper old man who had introduced himself as Mr. Alatar de Azul asked, irritation coloring his soft Spanish accent, "Anything to explain what you have seen? What nearly killed you?"

Silence for a moment. The ancient grandfather clock in the sitting room tocked with the fleeting seconds. Raphael massaged his head, tried to soothe his throbbing brain. "It's not that...it makes sense, it does. It's just so..." he laughed, a barking, hoarse sound that surprised even him, "stupid. I mean, come on...it's like some crappy fan fiction a high schooler came up with, or something. My dad ups and dies from a perfectly innocent heart attack, and next thing you know, I get whisked off by an...an elf." He glared at Aubrey, _no, not Aubrey,_ he chided himself,_ Glorfindel_. "And nearly barbecued by a...what did you call that?"

"Balrog." Glorfindel offered.

"Yeah. Whatever. And just because that wasn't enough, I'm supposedly the long lost heir of an ancient line of kings, or heroes, or something. Even though none of this ever appears in recorded history. _I_ sure didn't learn about this crap in school."

"It's pre-historic." Alatar sighed and shook his head. "It predates the pyramids and the shapes of the continents. The Cataclysm has come and gone since then. Of course this is not in history books."

"The Cataclysm? I don't remember seeing that in the movie. Like the Flood in the Bible?"

"Finally." Raphael was at a loss to determine whether exasperation or relief stood out the most in Alatar's tone. "Yes. Moses recorded the Cataclysm as faithfully as any chronicler could have. Exactly what came before that didn't matter to the children of men. Until now."

"Right. Because I'm some sort of hybrid..."

"Half-elven." Glorfindel interrupted almost apologetically. "Or just part-Elven, in your case."

"So...all this...stuff...and you guys..." He glanced absently at Glorfindel's sharply pointed eartips. At the strange curving script carved into the bare wooden beams and painted on the adobe walls. "Are real...and at the same time, all the other things I've been taught to believe..."

"Are all true, but they are not _all_ truth." Alatar nodded sagaciously, caressing his lush handlebar mustache between thumb and forefinger in an unconscious gesture. "As one of your saints said, 'wondrous are the works of God.'"

"Yeah, but the Bible isn't marketed as a _fantasy._ I mean, c'mon. The Lord of the Rings is _fiction_."

"We've been over this. You were nearly vaporized by a creature from said fantasy." The old man's voice was deadpan. Tired, almost. "As to your next question, no, we don't know how Professor Tolkien picked out the ancient history of Arda from the tangled threads of human myth. Somehow, however, he did. Almost perfectly. And I assure you," he glanced over at Glorfindel, as if this were an old point of contention between them, "I had no part in it. The trenches of France are many long leagues from El Jardin."

"Ok. Okay. Fine." Raphael held out his hands, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I believe it. All of it. Whatever. I don't understand, but I concede." He sat for a moment, cradling his head in his hands. When he looked up, both the Elf and the self-proclaimed Wizard were staring at him. He sighed again. "I need a moment. Is there somewhere..."

"Garden's in the courtyard." Glorfindel offered. "Third door to your right down the hall. Glass. Can't miss it."

"Okay. Thanks." He rose slowly, groggily, to his feet. Breakfast had been several hours ago, but he could still feel the food sloshing around in his gut. Huevos rancheros. And then the second course...food he had never seen or imagined. And the conversation had followed. Raphael sighed. He found the glass-paned double doors, somewhat out of place amidst the stolid New Mexican architecture, and stepped outside, shuffling and blinking at the heat and light.

The sun a merciless fire. He closed his eyes, the red-purple imprint of it seared into his cornea. A beacon in the darkness behind his eyelids. He looked down and blinked again several times, stifling a yawn. He looked up.

He saw the garden.

Curling ferns rose past head-height, their feet clad in blue and silver flowers with golden leaves. Trees with silver bark and leaves of green so dark they seemed black. Flashing a polished gold on their undersides. Beyond the portico, the paving gave way to earthen paths that disappeared into a lush riot of fauna, the like of which he had never seen. Vines with fruits that beckoned eye and tongue. He gaped. Then inexorably, hesitantly, he stepped off the porch, slippered feet crushing the rich dark loam. This was no Western garden. This was no American garden. A richly colored bird flitted past his head, golden wings winking in the sun, trailing its ethereal song behind it. He took another step.

Memories that were not memories flowed unbidden into his mind, as it carried on the very air of the place. A rush of pictures that he felt and lived, each in its crystallized momentary eternity.

A bearded man standing in a twilight wood, filthy and sword-girt. Watching. Mesmerized as a woman danced in the glade before him. Bare feet on the grass, the starlight reflected in the mirrors of her eyes, catching the thick gloss of her raven hair. Beauty itself in motion. A cry from tortured lips. "Tinuviel! Tinuviel!"

A city built upon a hill. Ringed with white walls and crowned with a golden tower. A dark host advancing against it. A warrior in golden armor, embossed with the sign of a flower, standing before a towering creature of fire and shadow. A man and a woman fled as he drew his sword, covering them with body and weapon.

Another image. A young man, younger than he, slender as a blade. Walking though a starlit garden, singing softly to himself. He stopped at the edge of a moonlit dell and stared. Another woman, like and unlike the first, stepping from tree to tree. Matching the nightingales with her song. Again the cry. "Tinuviel, Tinuviel!"

A young woman walking through a forest, a forest that was a garden, glancing right and left. Anxious. Excited. The sound of nightingales in the air. A young man in tunic, tabard, and hose stepped out from behind the trees and onto the path. He sang his own song, low and sweet. A harmony with the nightingales. The maiden turned, the curtain of her hair whirling behind her like the night sky, and gasped in simple delight. They embraced, and the birds sang all the louder

He gasped at the flood of emotion. Stepped back. Half-tripped, half-sat on the portico porch, cradling his head in his hands. This time, it was a memory. His father and mother on their anniversary. Holding hands, walking through the Arboretum at twilight. Singing. Echoes fading through the dusty halls of history. Neither one the same. Each a part of his dreams since a child, woven through the threads of nightmare.

"I've been so blind." He rubbed his eyes, suddenly moist with tears, and sighed deeply. He blinked, then started. The sun was now slanting near the horizon, the light turning from the clarity of afternoon to the ruddy gold of early evening.

The door behind him swung open. A hand rested on his shoulder. Glorfindel.

"Raphie, there's something you should see." His voice seemed hush, unusually gentle in this place.

Alatar was in the main living room, his dusty complexion blending with the dark wood and rich leather of the armchair he occupied. The television, a large late-model LCD display, the tech-geek in Raphael told him, was tuned to the national news. Glorfindel ushered him towards a leather couch. He sat and the well-oiled leather of the cushions embraced him. The anchor, a pretty blonde with a turned-up nose, had just gotten a sheaf of notes and was scanning through them. Flipping pages the only sound in the news studio, over the television, and in the living room of El Jardin.

Finally, she looked up. Raphael could not tell which was most disturbing, the false smile that trembled on her moistened lips, or the terror in her eyes that belied it.

"Sources confirm that the Chinese and North Korean governments have launched conventional warheads at unspecified US targets as, and I quote, "warning shots," to "cease and desist these vile attacks against civilian targets using biologically altered creatures." Government sources disavow any US involvement in the attacks, pointing to the ongoing attacks in Washington State, West Virginia, and Wyoming as proof. Now we bring you live footage from Charleston."

The camera cut to a video feed. From the shaking and bouncing of the picture and the roar of turbulence, Raphael guessed it must be mounted on a helicopter. Tree-lined roads winding down from the hills. And down many of those roads, fire blazed. Long flaming gouges were cut across the grid of the downtown. Tanks. Some moving, some firing. Some scorched and still. Here and there, the black crater where ordinance had landed.

Something silver and fast streaked across the frame. A jet, Raphael, hopelessly ignorant when it came to military matters, surmised. And then something else. A long, worm-like shape mounted on broad and spreading wings. Spouting flame from its open jaws, and hard on the tail of its mechanical adversary.

"Manwe's beard!" Alatar shouted in dismayed surprise, slamming his fist into the arm of his chair. "Glaurung!"

"What was that?" Raphael stood and pointed, "What in God's name was that?"

"Nothing in God's name." Alatar's voice was cool and dead, cutting across the panicked brabble of the television. "He is no part of God's creation. He is the father of dragons."


End file.
